Metamorphosis 1983

By Gene Isaacs

Lawyers show up at the home of a college professor and tell him that a Mexican ex-convict has died and left him property worth a fortune. He recognizes the name, but he had only known him for a short time in 1983. The complex solution to the mystery, the why of the bequest, involves hopes and dreams, conflicts of all kinds, bloody brutality, and, most importantly, enduring love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gene Isaacs
• Release date: Apr 16, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370640980

Gene Isaacs

After an adventurous life in the Marine Corps, the GI Bill helped me earn a BA in Creative Writing (specializing in Literary Fiction) from the University of Arizona. I deliberately don't write about myself; however, what I am and what I've done has undoubtedly, although unintentionally, colored my narratives. I create a diverse cast of fictional characters, put them in problematic and often dangerous situations, and let them tell me their experiences. Practicality and cussedness often trump institutionalized correctness in both their lovings and their deadly brawls. I enjoy hearing their tales, and I hope you'll enjoy reading my version of them.

Book preview

METAMORPHOSIS

1983

A Novel

By

Gene Isaacs

Published by: Says It All Publishing

Smashwords Edition

Cover Design and Photos by Bernice Isaacs

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the

author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,

business establishments, events, or locals is entirely coincidental.

Copyright 2007 Eugene Isaacs

Smashwords Edition License Notes:

Thank you for downloading this ebook. This book remains the copyrighted property

of the author and may not be distributed to other for commercial or non-commercial

purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their

own copy from their favorite authorized retailer. Thank you for your support.

Acknowledgement

Special thanks to the Arizona Daily Star for permission to use excerpts from various articles that

appeared in their 1983 editions.

Other works by Gene Isaacs:

Éxodo

EPIGRAPHS

You only have power over people as long as you don't take everything away from them. But when you've robbed a man of everything he's no longer in your power—he's free again.

—Alexander Solzhenitsyn

The First Circle, 1968

It is altogether curious, your first contact with poverty …. It is the only thing you have feared all your life, the thing you knew would happen to you sooner or later; and it is all so utterly and prosaically different. You thought it would be quite simple; it is extraordinarily complicated. You thought it would be terrible; it is merely squalid and boring …. You discover boredom and the mean complications and the beginnings of hunger, but you also discover the great redeeming feature of poverty: the fact that it annihilates the future. Within certain limits, it is actually true that the less money you have, the less you worry. You are bored but you are not afraid. You think vaguely, I shall be starving in a day or two—shocking, isn't it? And then the mind wanders to other topics. And there is another feeling that is a great consolation in poverty. I believe everyone who has been hard up has experienced it. It is a feeling of relief, almost of pleasure, at knowing yourself at last genuinely down and out. You have talked so often of going to the dogs—and well, here are the dogs, and you have reached them, and you can stand it. It takes off a lot of anxiety.

─George Orwell

Down and Out in Paris and London

CHAPTER ONE

FEJEZET EGY

THE WHITE stuccoed-adobe, territorial style home was hidden away in a fold of land on a one-acre lot at the end of a paved road in the Catalina Foothills. It was picturesquely isolated, but this was only a clever real-estate developer's illusion. The house, the seemingly empty hills immediately to the south below the house, and the other three undeveloped lots on this cul-de-sac were all owned by Rafferty O'Connor. There were empty mountains toward the north and east, the house being up against the boundary of the protected Push Ridge Wilderness. But to the west, out of sight beyond a series of ridges, was a gated subdivision built by Mr O'Connor for wealthy doctors and lawyers and investment bankers. And, despite the checkerboard streets of a large city barely visible in the distance, and because it was so deceptively hidden in Happy Valley—the identifying name on the weathered sign at the head of the road—this house appeared to be the only thing protecting its inhabitants.

The hills surrounding the house were littered with granite boulders and colorful rocks and sand, the weathered debris from the lofty Mountain of Saint Catherine, patroness of philosophers, that loomed majestically to the north—La Sierra de Santa Catalina in Spanish, Babad Tuad—Frog Man Mountain—in the language of the Tohono O'odham Indians.

Hackberry and willow trees, along with mesquite and creosote and wait-a-minute, cat-claw acacias, grew next to a dry arroyo that meandered toward the valley below. On the steeper and even dryer hillsides jumping cholla and prickly pear, tall but spindly clumps of ocotillo—monkey tails—and long needled barrel cacti flourished. The desert flora, however, was dwarfed by cereus giganteus, the magnificent saguaros, the durable looking yet environmentally fragile species that, in man’s romantic imagination, defines the Southwest. Like the giant saguaros, this desert world is ecologically fragile; but, at the same time, ruggedly beautiful and dangerous and sharp and cruel and hard and menacing and unforgiving.

It was early in the afternoon, siesta time; and a middle-aged man, wearing wrinkled khaki shorts and a faded T-shirt featuring a basketball swishing a net and the U of A logo, was half-dozing on the living-room couch. If he had looked from that vantage point—which he didn't—he would not have seen a cloud in the dark-blue sky; he did, however, feel and appreciate a breath of cooling breeze flowing through the open doors. The sun outside blindingly reflected the mica and minerals in the sand, and visible heat shimmers distorted everything. There was, because of the high angle of the sun, only a hint of shadow to give depth to this canvas. The much photographed and painted three-dimensional beauty of the landscape would not emerge until later in the afternoon when the long shadows of an aging day provided the necessary contrasts.

A soft and sad Spanish guitar played in the background—an Andrés Segovia recording—its mournful somberness counterpointing a joyful sound from the grassed side-yard: the squeals and yells and snarls and giggles of splashing and laughing children could be heard as they chased a wet Labrador through an oscillating sprinkler.

The house itself was larger than it seemed because much of it was hidden: like Frank Lloyd Wright's Taliesin West, it was built close to the cooling ground—in part beneath the ground—following the contour of the land, with each room on a different level. The front of the house to the north—the elevation facing the cul-de-sac—had a garage and an ornate entrance alcove with a hand wrought, Hecho en México, tarnished-green iron grill as a protection against intruders. The opposite side to the south, the back of the house, was dominated by a covered veranda that was cantilevered precariously over a cliff. There was a spectacular view of the distant mountains and the Tucson valley from this veranda, but the view in the front—from the living-room couch that is—was limited to what could be seen through the open front doors.

The heavy-lidded, sleepy eyes that had been reading the Colleen McCullough tome, Fortune's Favorites, that was balanced on his flat stomach, were forced wide open by the sound—and eventually the sight—of two cars, a white Saturn and a red Mercedes, laboring up the hill and cresting the ridge and coasting down to a stop on the street. A person got out of each of them; and, after talking briefly, they walked up the driveway together. It was an old man and a young man judging by the way each of them moved.

When the younger of the two persistently knocked on the front doors with his elder standing quietly next to him, the reclining man's inclination—bolstered by his sure knowledge that he could see them through the sheen of the one-way screen but that they couldn't see him—was to ignore the intrusion: let him knock until his hand hurt; and then, maybe, they might go bother … a non-existent neighbor? There was the intriguing uniqueness of strangers finding this isolated hideaway; and, there was also something about them—especially the old man—that made the recliner think they were too important to ignore.

The old man—perhaps in his eighties or even nineties; it was impossible to tell—was Hispanic, short and slender and dignified, with a dark Latino complexion and wavy white hair cut reasonably short and trained into the slicked-back style preferred by many thick-haired Mexicans. He was clean-shaven, except for the thin, white line of a Cesar Romero mustache that accentuated the leathered brownness of his skin. Extraordinarily long and bushy eyebrows gave him a roguish look that argued against the gravitas of old age and his otherwise gentle appearance. His boots were highly polished and, undoubtedly, expensive. He wore a light tan, perfectly tailored, summer weight suit of worsted wool; a dark brown shirt; a light blue silk tie kept in place by a dark-red, Apache Teardrop tie tack; and, with a folded blue handkerchief in the front pocket of his coat—only the elderly still wear handkerchiefs in their coat pockets. He looked comfortably cool despite being overdressed for September temperatures that were still in the high nineties. There was something fascinating about this old man who refused to compromise his standards that demanded deference.

The other man, young enough looking to be a student, wore a short sleeve, white dress shirt, sweat wet under the arms, with a gold Cross pen and pencil in the pocket, gray combed cotton Dockers, gray Hush Puppies, and a red power tie without a tack. He was slightly overweight, a too tight belt accentuating a roll of belly fat. He had the physique of a man who didn't yet realize that he was past the eat anything you want slenderness of his youth. Blue plastic sunglasses dangled haphazardly from a camouflage cord around his neck. He mopped the sweat from his brow with a hairy forearm between persistent knocks.

Both men had briefcases, but there was nothing of the salesman in their manner. And, they did not carry the well-thumbed mission books of a young Mormon elder and his mentor; nor, did they have the overly sincere look of the ubiquitous Jehovah's Witnesses: both groups immediately recognizable to anyone with a home and a porch and a door to knock on. There was, in fact, nothing about them—nothing at all—that hinted at the why of their perseverance.

With the doors open, music playing, kids screaming and laughing, a dog growling and barking, it was obvious that someone was home. They continued to knock; and, the now wide-awake, would-be sleeper stubbornly tried to ignore them; but, finally—substantiating a popular sales truism about persistence—he stirred himself, slipped on his rubber thongs, and flip-flopped from the couch and asked what they wanted.

They identified themselves with business cards. The younger man's name was Paul Masaryk. He didn't seem like a Mr Masaryk, however: he was a first name person—as in, Just call me Paul. He had the kind of dismissible personality that causes everyone to forget both his names as soon as they put his card in their pocket. He worked, according to the card, for the City Attorney’s Office.

The older man's name was Alejandro María Ramondino; of Ramondino, Gonzales, Gutierrez, and Associates, a law firm. In contrast to—Paul, wasn’t it?—he looked like a Mr Ramondino or Señor Ramondino or, with Andrés Segovia’s guitar inspiring thoughts of Don Quixote, the honorable Don Alejandro Ramondino. People like Mr Ramondino somehow exude a legitimacy that impresses and automatically opens doors. They look and act important, so you automatically treat them as if they are important. Possibly because of this kind of conditioned response, or maybe because of his firm handshake, certainly despite his devilish eyebrows—or was it because of his devilish eyebrows?—Mr Ramondino was invited into the house and into the kitchen and into the head-of-the-family kitchen chair, the only one with arms. The old man unbuttoned his coat and fastidiously pulled up his pants by the creases so the knees wouldn't stretch out and bag—a pre-wrinkle-proof-material habit—and sat down. Paul, who had been included in the general come-in-and-sit-down invitation, sat unceremoniously in the chair where the six-year-old, wet-dog chaser normally sat.

A slender young woman—or rather a slender, young-looking woman—in conservatively long black shorts and a white blouse, with jet-black hair that curled down to her waist and refused the constraint of a chignon, with green eyes and the alabaster complexion of a Hibernian Celt—she was obviously the wife and mother—was introduced as Emily. A surprisingly low and husky brogue voiced the polite formalities that established her Irish ethnicity beyond a reasonable doubt.

Mr Ramondino looked around with inquisitive eyes. You have a lovely home. He said this with a gallant, old world wave of his hand, almost as if he were bowing. You have done well. He nodded appreciatively toward what he could see of the house. A heavy accent, the accent of a man who had learned formal English in school and the courtroom, rather than conversational English at home, made dignified a statement that could easily have been, if not offensive, patronizing and suspicious. Instead, it was recognizably a rather pleasant exercise of an old-world formality: compliments all around before getting down to the nitty and gritty of whatever business was about to transpire.

Although the Irish excel at playful word games and delight in verbal jousting, Emily uncharacteristically accepted the compliments at face value. This tough daughter of Rafferty O’Conner—who had grown up on the god-awful streets of Belfast during the troubles—blushed. She was a behavior counselor for the Tucson Unified School District and regularly dealt with gang members and other crude-talking delinquents. Nothing ever shocked her, or made her blush; but, inexplicably, she blushed at Mr Ramondino’s polite expressions of esteem—her pale, Irish complexion turned a bright red. Mr Ramondino smiled and was obviously pleased with his conquest.

To hide her embarrassment, Emily busied herself in the kitchen. After much banging and clanging, and without asking if they wanted any, she set tall glasses of mint-flavored iced tea in front of her guests. They were most certainly her guests now rather than just uninvited strangers. It's a bit of cold tea to slake your thirst, she said in response to their expressions of gratitude. When she finished dispensing the hospitality, she yelled out the back door, with the banshee shriek of a Belfast fishmonger, to hush the dog and kids; she turned down the CD player with a remote control; and, with her curiosity barely in check, she smiled demurely and sat on her high, imperial throne next to the kitchen counter and gazed regally at her subjects.

Their home was beautiful, their ménage seemingly nonpareil, and their kitchen an exceptionally good place to visit with anyone, especially strangers, especially strangers with leather briefcases and intriguing calling cards. There was a pleasant, earthy, peat-moss scent from the many indoor plants; dark green, shade loving ferns; spider plants with babies dangling at the end of long, green runners; and fragile African violets—all were hanging in a colorful assortment of painted terra-cotta pots. In flats, on the windowsill over the sink, fresh oregano and thyme and basil and rosemary and cilantro spiced the air. There was also the lazy buzz of late-summer insects heard through open windows and the hum of a ceiling fan wafting a cool breeze that caused the chintz curtains to gently flap against the window screens.

It was apparently part of Mr Ramondino’s courtliness—another of his cultivated habits—to face the person he was talking to and speak directly to them as if they were the only person in the room. You are Dr Michael Garrity? he asked belatedly, reading the name from the document in his hand with a questioning raise of his eyebrows and an emphasis on the title.

Doctor? Yes … Associate Professor, actually. I teach history at the university. Please call me Michael, though. It was something he said automatically because titles, to his way of thinking, had a stigma of pretentiousness when used outside the academic community.

You teach history? Mr Ramondino asked. And what is your area of expertise, Mexican or Chicano history perhaps? He said this in a way that indicated a real interest; but, it was also clear that these were only icebreaking questions that were not to be taken too seriously.

I'm primarily interested in Eastern Europe. I teach graduate classes in Romanian and Hungarian history; and, I belong to a group that has a grant from an atlas publisher to write about the demographic patterns of various ethnic groups in Eastern Europe—it gives my research assistants some practical experience. There are about twenty of us, from different schools and different countries, collaborating on this project. We are working on creating new maps that will compare ethnic boundaries to political boundaries. The two seldom coincide, and most wars are the result of these differences. Michael had no idea why he was rambling about all this to a complete stranger. His words faded into silence, and he made an apologetic shrug.

Twenty teachers? Eastern Europe? All here in Arizona? Mr Ramondino asked with a look of wonder on his remarkably mobile and dramatic face.

Not here! Michael laughed, realizing the questions were an absolution for his pedantic outburst. It's part of the magic of computers. Most of my colleagues are in Europe. We communicate by email on the Web and by an occasional conference call.

Of course, there is no bigotry in Mexico or Latin America, Mr Ramondino sarcastically said, "no trouble at all between the Españoles, Criollos, Mestizos, Indios from many different tribes. But, I would have thought in Europe—because it is old and civilized—that bigotry would not be an issue: everyone living in Spain, for instance—except the expatriates and the Basques and the Catalonians—are Spaniards, are they not?" His ironic smile confirmed that he had a practical grasp of the realities.

Michael laughed appreciatively. Most people in America, he said, after they've been here for a few generations—after the pot thoroughly melts them—no longer recognize their ethnic complexities; and, they ignore completely the almost insurmountable problems of Europeans and Latinos. Everyone thinks Hungary, for instance, has a homogeneous population; but, off the top of my head—not true because it had been the focus of his research for years—Magyars and Huns and Pannonians and Slovaks and Bulgars and Khazars and Patzinaks and Cumans and Slavonians and Croats and Russians and Ukrainians and Armenians and Wallachians and Bosnians and Serbs and Székelies and Romanies and … lots of others live there and argue constantly about who the real Hungarians are.

And you speak all these languages? the old man’s eyebrows rose in amazement.

Not hardly! Michael harrumphed self-consciously, the honest wonderment in Mr Ramondino's question making him rue his own pretentiousness. My undergraduate language was German, and my graduate language was Latin. I can't speak either one, though: I only have an academic, reading knowledge; and, I depend on dictionaries and friends to help me decipher what I need to know for my work. After years of trying, I can speak and read Hungarian and Romanian tolerably well, but my friends in both these countries say I have a terrible accent.

And Spanish? Mr Ramondino asked.

I studied Spanish in high school; and, being from California, I had a lot of opportunities to use it. I wasn't fluent by any means, but I was able to communicate with my Mexican school friends—mostly in Spanglish. That ability was useful when I first moved to Tucson; but, now my ears don't work quite right—or maybe it's my brain that doesn't work quite right. Most Mexicans in Tucson, although they prefer Spanish, speak a lot of English—especially the kids after they start school.

Yes, Mr Ramondino agreed, with a sound of sadness in his voice. It is not much of a problem; everyone everywhere speaks English.

Then Paul impatiently reintroduced himself as an Assistant Tucson City Attorney. I am a trial lawyer, he added, with a nuance that implied status awareness, a conviction that being a trial lawyer, at least a trial lawyer for the City of Tucson, was a prestigious position. "But, mostly the city keeps me busy with contracts, acquisitions, writing statutes, that sort of thing. It’s the old Ts and Is, the dottings and crossings," he continued, with a wave of his hands, sorting and shuffling and writing and dotting and crossing documents in the air.

Both attorneys, after these first introductions and statements, sat politely staring at Michael, waiting for him to initiate the crux of the conversation. But all he could do—he still didn't have a clue as to why they were sitting in his kitchen—was to stare back at them.

Mr Ramondino finally took the lead. Normally, he began, his accent and careful diction causing everyone to pay close attention, I would be doing this by mail, Dr Garrity … Michael … but I have a great deal of free time now that I'm retired; and, Francisco, after all, was my good friend. I happened to mention the need for this visit to Paul—he put his hand affectionately on Paul's shoulder—and, as it turned out, he, too, has an interest. It is perhaps a little unusual to do this on a weekend, but it is important, and we were both free this Saturday. His voice faded, and he looked around expectantly. When he saw the incomprehension on Michael and Emily's faces, he understood and reluctantly changed direction: I take it then that you have not been notified?

Again, he gave Michael an expectant look. Then he looked at Paul who was also looking at Michael. Michael looked at Paul. Paul looked at Mr Ramondino. Michael looked at Mr Ramondino. Then, for no discernible reason, they all looked at Emily. Having regained her composure, she returned the rather confused and indiscriminate looks with a powerful and determined stare that encompassed them all—staring back being an important and oft-used psychological tool for school counselors.

This is a surprise, Mr Ramondino said, finally. I thought you were Francisco's close friend. And, wetting his lips nervously, I thought you knew. This was a spur of the moment thing, you see, and I am not prepared. Dr Garrity …. He started, but then he hesitated, struggling with the words. I am so sorry to be the one to bring you this sad news about him.

About Francis? Michael asked.

Yes, he said. And then formally, Francisco, Señor Francisco Zapolya …. He hesitated again; and, when he sensed in Michael—who knows how this kind of thing is transmitted—a possible sign of recognition, a sign of sadness, a sign of nostalgia for a name out of his past: I am sorry Dr Garrity. Francisco Zapolya passed away almost two months ago. I thought for sure … I mean … given the circumstances … I thought you would have already been informed. I am truly sorry.

Michael had once known someone named Francis Zapolya. In the past they were best friends for one long and hot summer; but, even with this, he didn’t know the man well enough to justify a personal notification visit from an attorney. Despite this qualm, he felt an unreasonable stab of pain, something his disciplined mind preferred to think of as nostalgia—time, of course, having tempered any real sadness. I don't understand, he said. I knew a man named Francis Zapolya but … not this well. He waved to indicate their surprising presence in his kitchen. I haven't seen or heard from him in years. Why, he asked in a perplexed voice, are you two here?

All three men seemed to sit up straighter. The awkward moment of condolence was over, and the attorney thing could now happen. It is because of the property, Mr Ramondino said. And then, after a close examination of Michael’s face for a sign of recognition, Surely you know about the property? When the only answer to his question was a dumbfounded shrug, he looked incredulously at his younger colleague then at the regal Emily then back at Michael. Francisco Zapolya has left you a valuable piece of land, he announced in a matter of fact way. The deep experience lines etched in his face proclaimed his firm belief that people do not leave their worldly possessions haphazardly to strangers—there is always a purpose: a way to control someone before death, a way of controlling what happens beyond the grave, a way to make yourself remembered, a way to make yourself immortal.

Paul nudged Mr Ramondino. Don't forget the …. He pointed with his face toward the front doors and beyond, to the cars parked on the street.

Ah, yes. This was said with a deep sigh. There are three other things. There is an old metal box that seems to have been important to Francisco. There is also a small portable Victrola record player. It too, I believe, is rather old; it certainly has seen better days.

Michael nodded his head. Everyone else sat still, waiting for him to respond. Finally, Paul rescued the moment by clearing his throat and waving his hand at Mr Ramondino with a circular get on with it motion.

After clearing his throat, Mr Ramondino continued, There is also the matter of the ashes.

We have the box in the back of the car, Paul blurted.

The ashes? Michael asked.

The ashes? Emily sputtered from her seat.

Yes, the cremains, Mr Ramondino answered. It states specifically in Francisco's will that you shall receive the cremains. He reached into his briefcase and pulled out a manila folder; and, after adjusting his wire rimmed reading spectacles, he read from a copy of the will. It says—I am translating from the Spanish, of course—'Michael Garrity is the one person on earth who knows precisely where I wish to be buried; and I, therefore, desire to have my cremated remains delivered to him for internment.'

Everyone looked at Michael expectantly—Paul, with a little boy's excitement over the bizarre; Mr Ramondino, over the top of his spectacles; and Emily, sitting bolt upright on her stool, wide-eyed and with her mouth open.

I see, Michael said, and then, avoiding the issue and not satisfying anyone, and this property you mentioned?

Yes, Mr Ramondino said, not paying any attention to the impatient noises both Emily and Paul were making. He pulled out another manila folder from his briefcase. You must understand that I am named as the executor in Francisco's will; but, it is not necessary to go through the formal probate procedure because the land is the only thing of value in his name; and … it is Transferable on Death directly to you.

What about his family? Michael asked.

"No one else has come forward; and, Consuela has no objections—in fact she thought it was a good idea. I do not have the actual title with me, but it corresponds to this document. He readjusted his spectacles and read for a moment, this time from a page copied from the County Recorder’s property deeds microfiche. He handed it to Michael and pointed to a highlighted line. As you can see, he said, jabbing a thin finger at the appropriate place, it is recorded in Francisco's name, with Michael Garrity as the Transfer on Death beneficiary. Of course, you may have to account for the windfall. The equity is substantial; the property is paid for, there are no encumbrances; and, even if you have to borrow to pay any fees or new taxes, you will still have inherited a sizeable fortune."

Yes, I see, Michael said, managing to keep the amazement out of his voice.

This is where I come in Dr Garrity, Paul interrupted enthusiastically. The city wants to buy this property, and we are prepared to make a fair-market offer.

Offer? Michael asked—holding up his hands—uncomfortable with the pace of events rather than the fact that Paul was about to make an offer.

I know this is a little fast for you, Mr Ramondino said quickly, waving Paul off. It is a lot to comprehend all at once. Perhaps we should give you time to think it over? Then, if it is all right with you, we will get into the details. He thought for a minute more, his right index finger scratching the end of his mustache. This is still not being fair; maybe we should put everything off until next week, call it a day and make an appointment to meet somewhere, my office perhaps. But trust me, the property already belongs to you; all that is needed is the paper work and a visit to a title company to have a new title issued and recorded in your name.

Yes, Michael agreed, but I do need time to collect my thoughts. If you can give me a moment, waving at them to settle back in their chairs, I'll be right back. If you need anything, ask and Emily will …. He pointed to his wife. All three of them watched as he pushed away from the table and edged past Emily. He didn't go far. He walked down the hall and through the master bedroom to the bathroom where he turned on the fan to isolate himself from the world, pulled down his pants, sat down on the toilet, and thought about Francis Zapolya and that strange summer so long ago.

CHAPTER TWO

FEJEZET KETTÓ

DAY OF 111 IS HOTTEST IN 13 YEARS

The official temperature of 111 was a record high for July 5. A thunderstorm brought high winds, spectacular lightning strikes and rain. Wind gusts up to 44 mph were recorded. Blowing debris and numerous fire and security alarms were touched off.

—The Arizona Daily Star

July 6th, 1983

REMEMBERING THE SUMMER OF 1983

THERE is an experience in most everyone's early life that lasts hours or days or weeks or months—or, if one is extremely lucky, longer—an experience that makes the world real, which sets the stage for everything that comes after. It is a life-changing juncture if you will, an epiphany, something real and alive and, therefore, far more meaningful than an abstract philosophical metaphor or pithy aphorism from someone's book of wisdom. Robert Frost said, Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference. Bob Dylan said, How many roads must a man walk down before you can call him a man? Yogi Berra said, If you come to a fork in the road … take it!

Without realizing it at the time, I was faced with such a choice of roads during that fateful summer of 1983. I had more than wise epigrams to guide me, though: I had older, experienced friends—Owen Chard, Mr Theroux, a bartender named Charles, and the best friend I ever had in my life, Francis Zapolya—real people, fallible to a fault, who made all the difference. However, I'm not precisely sure about—no matter how many times I've pondered the subject—the exact nature of their influence. It could be that their examples were all negative, and that since that summer I have subconsciously patterned my life to avoid their respective mistakes. It could be … but I don't think so.

I am sure, though, that back in my Holden Caulfield days, I was impressionable and in desperate need of relief from youth's derisory folly: the impossibly optimistic pursuit of success, whatever the word success may mean. Francis Zapolya, on the other hand, needed relief not from youth but from the impossible troubles that come with maturity and the actualities of success. We were both in transition—I was on my way up; Francis was on his way down. But, for that one sweltering summer, our paths ran parallel, and we developed an improbable, symbiotic, rollicking-sidekick relationship.

Francis often did things that were decidedly inappropriate, but I didn't—not always—follow him blindly into perdition. I rather did the rarest of rare things: I learned by observing and sharing somewhat vicariously in an older man's adventure. I didn’t know I was doing any such thing of course; I was having fun, working and playing hard, enjoying a year or two away from my parents before life turned serious.

It was my first time away from home, a modern-American version of a Victorian-era Grand Tour. My father bragged about his Grand Tour, hitchhiking cross-country in the fifties when he was wild and crazy; but, I only took a Greyhound from San Jose to Tucson to check out the campus at the University of Arizona. I’ve heard it said that there is a small part of the brain—it is the last part to develop and mature—that allows a person to visualize the future consequences of their actions. My father thought all kids—me included—were absolutely hopeless and often said: We should bury them at thirteen and not dig them up until they’re twenty-three. I was an absolutely hopeless nineteen when I first became friends with Francis in the summer of 1983. He helped me dig myself out from the societal tomb of conventional thinking and imposed correctness that marked my conservative upbringing, and I am forever grateful.

Francis taught me to hold in great esteem the contraries, the things both good and bad that spice life simply because they are different. Not that Francis knew anything about William Blake's contraries, or that he was aware he was being contrary, or that he was teaching me anything; rather, his heterodox opinions were based solely on experience and common sense; and, they were … interesting. Ironically, his perspicuities manifested his innate perspicaciousness, and I listened and watched and, most of the time, enjoyed. Mine were only simple Songs of Innocence after all, and his were Songs of Experience. I am not sure I understood everything he said and did; I am sure, though, that he often got it all wrong. But, somehow his wrongness seemed—and still seems—good and honest and moral and ethical.

Not that he was particularly loud and cantankerous and overbearing in expressing his opinions to others—although he liked to talk, he was a quiet sort of man, and he didn't bother folks by shooting off his mouth on every subject. He was quiet, but when he did speak, he spoke with a fierce sincerity that could not be ignored. He talked to me a lot because I'm a good listener—impressionable my father might have said—but mostly, to be brutally honest, it was because talking and heavy drinking go together. I did learn, though, that to understand Francis' way of thinking … and living, I had to watch closely what he did and did not do and listen hard to the things he did and did not say—his did-nots being every bit as informative as his dids.

His considerable problems were compounded by his contempt for the norms of correctness: he detested the modern need to pursue wealth and power and prestige, and the parallel need to guard and protect acquisitions and reputations. There was also the nihilistic, icon-busting joy he took in smashing the conventional; even though he knew—he was very smart and he must have known—that his self-destructive behavior would cost him everything. Certain men—we'd like to think they were motivated by lofty ideals—damn the world they live in by their outrageous behavior: most of them die in ignoble anonymity, but some of them become legends.

Francis Zapolya said what he said and did what he did, but he let everyone draw their own conclusions and figure out the whys and wherefores on their own. The whole process, in retrospect, reminds me of the film version of Louis L'Amour novel, Hondo, where John Wayne, Hondo Lane, always amends his sage advice by saying: But you do what you want. He tells the little boy that his Indian-killing dog, Sam, is wild and won't tolerate being petted. When the boy persists, he shakes his head and says: But you do what you want. When the dog snaps and the boy's mother protests, he says: I told him not to touch the dog! But … he'll learn the lesson faster by getting bit! Like I said, I didn't mimic Francis Zapolya in everything: I already had an inquisitive nature—and a strong preference for Corvettes over city buses—before we met; but, knowing him and being his enthusiastic disciple for one long-and-hot summer did change my life forever.

I had actually met Francis earlier that year. We were both central office technicians—switchmen—for the telephone company. We worked in the same building, on the same floor, and on the same equipment. We had been introduced and shook hands and exchanged names; but, although we always mumbled gratuitous pleasantries whenever we met, we were only casual acquaintances. I was young and he was old—at least he seemed old to me at the time. I had graduated the previous summer from high school in California and began my gap year by hiring on with the telephone company in Tucson and attending their technical school. I thought I knew what I was doing. Francis had once—for three years—taught at this same school and actually did know what he was doing.

In the hidden and seemingly chaotic world of a telephone company central office—computer terminals and oscilloscopes, whirling tape drives, flashing lights and ringing bells and gonging gongs—Francis Zapolya was a superstar. He was a genius, someone whom everyone—clerks and executives, maintenance engineers and hopelessly abstracted wizards from Bell Labs—consulted about fixing complicated electronic equipment. And, like all geniuses, he did everything with dexterity and grace and style that made it look easy—like Dave Brubeck's nonchalant noodling of jazz riffs on the piano, like Mark Spitz skimming over the water to win the gold, like Jerry Rice ghosting down the sideline and making an impossible catch in the end zone. He was recognized by all, pointed at, talked about in the hallways and elevators and breakrooms; but, despite this isolating celebrity, he was readily approachable. He was serious and respected and affable, but he also had a droll sense of humor, without excessive jokestering, and a willingness to be friendly. Everyone, including me, thought they knew him well; but, none of us knew the real Francis Zapolya.

It came as a complete surprise when he stopped his car at a bus stop near the apartment where I lived—and, as it turned out, where he had just moved in—and waved me over. Hey, Michael, he said, climb in.

I was a Les Moore type back then, a kid not long away from my childhood home and the protective apron strings of my mom—I was still semi-dependent on an allowance from my dad. My idol had remembered me; in front of the hitherto less-than-respectful regular bus riders, he called me by name—Hey, Michael—and asked me to climb in. He had stopped slantwise next to the curb, blocking the bus that had just pulled up, and he made the bus driver—and the envious passengers—wait while I slowly slid my ginger headed and generously freckled and pocket protected and smirking self into the passenger's seat.

I learned during those summer days and nights that the Corvette was more than twenty years old when Francis stopped and rescued me. It was not a restoration, however: Francis had bought it new in 1962—it was one of the first 1963 Stingrays—and kept it in mint condition. For a long time, while he was married and driving a station wagon, it was up on blocks in his garage. The Corvette—the only tangible thing he had kept in the divorce settlement—was in fact still extraordinary. Over the years he had had many of the parts chromed or re-chromed—the radiator cowling and the valve covers and the headers and pipes for instance. He kept the fire wall and wheel wells and the rest of the engine compartment freshly painted. We spent many an evening in a coin operated car wash, drinking beer and de-greasing and steam cleaning the mill, cleaning and re-cleaning a machine that was already immaculate. Both the interior and exterior were cared for in the same compulsive way. The tires and rubber door seals and floor mats were kept black with Armor All. The real leather upholstery was kept clean with a gentle detergent and a soft scrub brush. The chrome trim and chrome grill and chrome wheels were polished regularly and often. And the red paint—a color that almost always becomes dull and chalky in the extreme southwestern sun—glowed with fire like intensity through the many thin layers of Meguiar's Car Wax.

I am convinced though—convinced by knowing Francis—that this excessive car care wasn’t completely anal: preserving or bringing back the pleasant past was certainly part of it; but mostly, Francis, in the best sense of a Zen experience—the kind of subjective satisfaction advocated in Robert Pirsig's Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance—flat out enjoyed polishing his car. The process was far more important than the results. He carried in his trunk the necessaries; and, whenever he was forced to wait for even a few minutes—while I stood in a Quick Stop line, for instance—he would break out the rags, apply a little polish and caress a car part until it glowed. And, for Francis, the emerging brilliant perfection of the shine was sublime. It was the exquisiteness of the moment you see, the narrowing of his perception to those few square inches of highly polished fender. It was the feel and the softness and the smoothness of the wax beneath his fingers, the pleasure of stroking and caressing something he loved until there was no more resistance and the object of his affection glowed with pleasure. For him it was a much needed shutting out of a world that had grown unfriendly and beyond his command. It was the compression of everything good into a few square inches that he could control. This was important to him: the laying on of his hands to make something perfect.

I know all this about Francis because we became close friends; and, for all the time we were close, I was unconsciously collecting and digesting and collating in my mind hundreds